


Djinn’s eyes

by lisea18



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Devotion, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluff, Frotting, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Penetrative Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Racism, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Service Top, Slow Burn, Smut, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Touch-Starved, Virgin Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, at least I hope lol, demi-sexual Nicky, mention of pedophilia from a priest (not on Nicky)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisea18/pseuds/lisea18
Summary: They die by each other’s swords. Many times. Until Yusuf offers his hand. Yusuf wants to go back home, to his loved ones. Nicolò follows. How do Yusuf and Nicolò start traveling together and communicating? How do they learn about each other, their personality, their past? How do they become friends before feelings that shouldn’t be born between ex enemies start to bloom? How do they deal with immortality and what it entails? Slowly, with pining, tears and laughter.Will update twice a month on Friday evening GMT+1 at least for now (16 chapters done, working on the rest)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 61
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Old Guard. I do not make any money from writing this. 
> 
> English isn’t my first language so forgive any mistakes. A thousand thanks to PollyPocalypse (https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyPocalypse/pseuds/PollyPocalypse) who is betaing this story! 
> 
> Thank you to Amekakushi who agreed to be a sensitivity reader!  
> And thank you also to ririsasy (https://archiveofourown.org/users/ririsasy ) who is the second sensitivity reader :) 
> 
> **Do not repost and/or copy even partially. Thank you.**
> 
> **This fanfic contains graphic depiction of violence and sex. If you are under 16 years old, or do not feel at ease with any of the tags DO NOT READ. By continuing to read, you are taking responsibility for your own actions.**
> 
> I am writing this for fun. I made some researches for this story but I do not aim to be historically accurate, I am crap at geography and I’m not a Muslim (but the lovely Amekakushi and Ririsasy are here to prevent me from doing something too bad) nor a Christian (per se, raised in it, so I can butcher it if I want >.> lol) 
> 
> **If you need a tag added you can ask me, kindly.**

# Djinn’s eyes

## Chapter 1

The last thing Yusuf remembered was eviscerating that blue-eyed Frank and readying himself for the next one, before feeling a blinding pain mixed with surprise as the dying asshole skewered him. As he fell, he thought of his family who would never see him again, of his art that would never improve, and that he had at least defended his beliefs to the end and killed as many of those invaders as he could.

Then he had woken up, disoriented, blinking to chase away the remnant images of two strange ladies. He had expected everything to hurt. It did. For a few minutes. Then it didn’t. But Yusuf knew for sure he wasn’t dead. He just knew. Just as he knew, too intimately, the smell of blood, rotting flesh, excrement and bile. And that stench was all around him, even if the battle had ended. And it had, he couldn’t hear metal against metal, screams of defiance and pain. The sounds that greeted his ears were those of the night and of the dying. Maybe his brethren would come collect the corpses, check for survivors, or he had been left behind, no time to get him. He had no family in Jerusalem to miss him.

Slowly, Yusuf lifted his right hand and started to pat his stomach, cautiously, searching for the injury that should have killed him. As he didn’t find it, he got a little frantic in his search, not caring anymore about putting dirty fingers in it and causing pain. Nothing.

He abruptly sat up, eyes wide open as he looked down at himself, covered in grime and blood, at his tunic, uglily cut open, and at the smooth, unblemished brown skin of his stomach. Before he could really process what was happening, shouts alerted him.

“A survivor!”

His language. Good. He turned and a familiar face greeted him, hands hoisted him up and started looking… for an injury that wasn’t there. Yusuf knew fear, all too intimately, but now a different kind of fear gripped him: of the unknown, of how his people would react.

“Yusuf, what happened?” asked his comrade.

Yusuf was as much a soldier as an artist; a creator of lies, be they drawings, poems or short stories.

“I think I got knocked out. Got lucky. Everything hurts, especially my head,” he grumbled hazily.

The lie had come naturally to his lips. It had felt needed, important. He didn’t hurt yet, but his viscera had knotted themselves inside of him, dread choking him, making him lean heavily on the man holding him up. Which only served to make his lie more credible. 

“Allah be praised!”

Yusuf blinked. Could Allah be praised for his survival? Yusuf was a dreamer, yes, but not that kind. He knew he had been killed. He vividly remembered the feeling of a sword entering his body, tearing his guts. As he remembered the face of his killer, the twist of angry agonized lips, the fading blue of hating eyes. Yet he had nothing to show for it.

“How rare to have you silent, Yusuf. You must really have hit your head hard,” joked his fellow soldier.

Nodding and trying to grant him a smile, Yusuf followed and declared himself well enough to help get the corpses of his people back to their grieving families. He came back exhausted, hugged his fellow warriors. They were glad to see him alive, teasing him about fainting in the middle of battle. His heart felt calmer for being surrounded by them, eating their meager rations in their company, even if the fear of battle loomed. They had seen how it had gone, and they knew that the next day might be their last. They were overwhelmed but they would fight till the end to protect their home.

Yusuf bid them goodnight, needing some time alone and some sleep to face the rapidly approaching day. He undressed, cleaned up a bit, and put on new clothes. He hadn’t been able to do all the prayers of the day, so he washed his hands then his face, his arms, his head and ears and finally his feet. Ready and cleansed, he began his worship.

That brought him enough peace of mind to stop running away from what had happened and start thinking about it again. He gingerly lifted his shirt and touched his stomach, where he knew a sword had pierced him. Still nothing, not even a scar. He pinched himself and groaned. Still hurting.

Maybe it had been a hallucination from the heat? Yes, that had to be it. Yusuf laughed under his breath. He truly was a dreamer, a bit too much, his dad was right. Hence why he had been sent here to further his education and learn to be a warrior, then stayed as the Frank decided to invade. Yusuf pulled his scimitar out, beginning to clean and sharpen it, making sure it wouldn’t fail him tomorrow. As he passed his thumb on the blade to test its sharpness he felt it bite his skin and cursed.

He brought his thumb to his lips, sucking the blood off, and inspected the wound. To find none. Alright. Yusuf deliberately cut his thumb again, deep, just to be sure. It bled, then closed under his eyes. He did it again. Same result.

Yusuf raked his hands through his hair, grumbling as they got stuck in his locks. Strangely, that reassured him, this little normalcy. He closed his eyes and thought. What was this… sorcery? What could he do? The Frank were under the walls, ready to butcher them. That had priority above anything. Tomorrow, he would fight. Maybe they would win, maybe not. This was what mattered right now. Then he would have to deal with whatever this was, if he was still alive. Maybe it would help tip the battle, even if he highly doubted it.

For a moment fear gripped him. His brethren couldn’t find out about that. He loved them and knew they were good men, at least those he kept close. But this… it was too much. Just like who he loved had to remain behind closed doors. No. He had to understand this himself, maybe seek council with someone he truly trusted. If Allah was testing him, then he would walk this path.

Yusuf got up and started packing what he could. He would fight and whatever the result, if death refused him again, he would leave and go back home. To people he loved and trusted more than anything in the world. Maybe he would bring that sorcery to his mother. She might be able to enlighten him, or at least appease him. After all, she had been the one to help him deal with his lack of desire for women and his desire to lay with men. She had been the one to help Yusuf accept it, to reassure him that Allah made no mistakes. Because of her, Yusuf had managed to embrace that part of himself, as long as he acted with love in his heart.

His decision made, Yusuf finished his bag, discreetly went to a quiet part of the fortifications, threw his bag above it to be found later and went back to get some sleep.

***

Nicolò woke in agony, lost in a sea of corpses, in the dark. Images of two women, warriors with unfamiliar features, behind his eyelids but already fading. He remained motionless, waiting for the pain to subside, if it ever would. It did. His first thought was that he was in Hell, where he deserved to be, as had been promised to him. He had failed to save Jerusalem, to guide his people, and so his rotten soul hadn’t been saved. He wept silently, waiting for his doom, lying in the blood and mud until his bladder made itself known.

That was peculiar.

He pushed himself up, levering himself on the corpse of one of his own. He felt fine; wasn’t Hell supposed to hurt? He patted his body, noticing how his garb was open at his stomach, flapping uselessly. Where he had been gutted, nothing but pale skin. Nothing was amiss. He would have expected to drag his viscera for eternity, a gruesome memento of his death, as he walked in Hell.

Maybe it was more of a mental torture? He looked around at the desolation, at the bodies scattered everywhere. Mostly his own people, because the Muslims went to get back as many of their dead comrades as possible whenever they could. That, even more than the fact that they seemed pretty human to him, had been what had convinced him that they weren’t mere beasts like he had been led to believe. Animals didn’t care for their dead. 

Nicolò walked away, toward where his camp would be. On the way he relieved himself and thought that maybe he wasn’t dead yet. This was… Hell, yes, he had been thinking that pretty much as soon as he had laid foot on this land. But Hell on earth. As far as mental torture was concerned, it delivered, leaving him here to deal with the terrible mistake of joining this invasion. But he had expected… something more in the vein of seeing the kids from the church dying? His bishop condemning him and excommunicating him? He had no family to truly call his own, and certainly no one here to love him and come back for his corpse.

But where was he to go? So he went back to the camp, as simple as that. There he was met with strange looks; people commented on the fact that he was still alive, but didn’t inquire about his wellbeing. He forced a smile for those that seemed relieved to see him alive, and blessed them as he knew they wished. None asked about where he had come from, what had happened, which was a good thing because Nicolò was lost. This was not Hell. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Feeling disoriented, he left his camp, went to a further one, where he knew a bishop was. He waited until he was admitted in and knelt, silent, confused and lost.

“Yes?” the bishop asked, impatient.

“Am I dead?” Nicolò blurted.

A beat of silence. Nicolò didn’t lift his gaze from the ground; he was a patient man. He had been told archery suited him because he could wait hours without moving.

“You are a priest, I believe... what was your name again?”

“Nicolò, your excellency.” 

“You should pray for your soul and get some sleep. Today was an important battle, tomorrow will give us victory.”

It seemed Nicolò had sought help at a bad time. He went to rise but a hand stopped him.

“What troubles you?”

Grateful, Nicolò opened his mouth to explain, at last lifting his face to meet eyes that didn’t care. He remembered that lady that refused to marry, that lived outside the town, minded her own business and ended up killed for sorcery. He thought of the Saracen being slaughtered for believing in the same God but in another manner. Nicolò closed his mouth.

He had to say something, he could see the clergy man’s patience wearing thin. But he couldn’t lie, could he? So he confessed another problem that plagued his mind.

“Do they truly deserve to die?”

The bishop huffed.

“Of course they do. They refused us access for our pilgrimages! Nicolò, having pity is an admirable quality, but do not extend it to infidels."1

“Yes, your excellency.”

“God be with you,” dismissed the bishop.

Nicolò nodded, got up and left without feeling even a tiny bit better.

Centuries later, Nicolò would describe becoming an immortal in these terms: “She’s confused, and she’s scared and she’s more alone than she has ever been in her entire life. We all remember what it was like.”

He had thought he knew what it meant to be alone. He had been all his life, after all. The unwanted one, the different one… Even here he wasn’t truly welcome, couldn’t embrace the cause as much as some, nor the carnage, and was alienated for it. And those who had the same sensibilities as him? They wanted his counsel but needed him to be above them; a guide, not a brother-in-arms. And now, even more than before, he had to fear them, for a second unforgivable secret had been added to his name.

Or had it been a nightmare? Had he been hit on the head and dreamt he was gutted? His torn clothing could be a coincidence. That had to be it, right? People didn’t come back from the dead. He thought of the cross of his rosary, tucked safely against his skin. Well, at least not people like him. 

Nicolò closed his tent behind him, glad to have been provided with that luxury for being a priest from a noble family. He fished out his rosary, a gift from his Bishop, his mentor, and started to pray in earnest. But he couldn’t shake off the dread, the fear… the knowledge that he had been dead and came back.

He reached for his bag, pulling out the discipline 2 he kept for when lust entered his mind and he couldn’t get rid of it. He never used it for anything else, didn’t encourage people to use it either, but today would be an exception. Breathing slowly through his nose, preparing for the pain, Nicolò removed his top and without hesitation and with far more force than usual, whipped himself.

The pain gripped him, intense and welcome for once, as well as the trail of blood on his skin, proof he had gone overboard, but a relief in this particular circumstance.

Until the pain faded. Totally.

Cold sweat gripped him and he shivered as if terror itself had trailed its frigid finger along his spine, taunting him. He reached blindly behind him, met blood but no broken skin. He started choking, his breath fast and not enough, panic coursing through his veins. He grabbed his sword and cut his arm and watched with abject horror as it knitted itself back together.

Nicolò trembled from head to toe, heaving brutally. Clutching his rosary he began to pray in earnest, crying as he did, trying to drown his fears and the jumble of his thoughts. But they plagued him and nothing brought him peace.

He was more alone than he had ever been in his entire life, because even God had renounced him. 

(1) Bit of history, one of the reasons for the first Crusade (1095 to 1099, that wasn’t called that at the time) was that the Seljuqs Turks refused, from 1078, access to Jerusalem to the Christians pilgrims.<br />  
BUT the city was taken back by the Fatimid before the Christian reached it, and the Fatimid had always allowed pilgrims… yet the Christian still took the city. But this, Nicolò doesn’t know (yet). 

(2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discipline_(instrument_of_penance)

  1. Bit of history, one of the reasons for the first Crusade (1095 to 1099, that wasn’t called that at the time) was that the Seljuqs Turks refused, from 1078, access to Jerusalem to the Christians pilgrims. BUT the city was taken back by the Fatimid before the Christian reached it, and the Fatimid had always allowed pilgrims… yet the Christian still took the city. But this, Nicolò doesn’t know (yet).  [ ▲ ]
  2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discipline_(instrument_of_penance) [ ▲ ]




	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely people who left reviews and kudos :)

## Chapter 2

Yusuf woke up after a night of nightmares and fitful sleep. For once, he didn’t want to stay in bed. For once, he was early to the first prayer of the day. He dutifully went to it, wanting the comfort of his brethren and not to do it alone, and was mercilessly teased for it.

Tension was palpable but they all tried to cheer one another up, for the benefit of the youngest ones, for those that weren’t real warriors. Yusuf was a seasoned warrior and still needed the reassurance, he couldn’t imagine how it was for the others.

He itched to draw but his equipment and notebook were in his bag, on the other side of the wall. So he went there, waiting to see the Frank appear and start the hostility. Discreetly, he cut his thumb on his dagger and sighed on seeing that nothing had changed. It hadn’t been a dream, not even a waking dream.

He hugged and saluted all the brethren that passed him, wishing them luck and protection for what was coming. It was with a renewed drive that he gripped his scimitar and waited to try and prevent the inevitable.

The battle was horrible, gruesome as they all were, but made worse by being coated in despair… because Yusuf knew they were losing. The Frank were going to enter Jerusalem and they would murder everyone in it: men, women and children. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would set tonight and rise tomorrow uncaring of the slaughter it witnessed. Because that was how humans worked in times of war, how they claimed victory and sent messages to their enemies. And while the Frank may pretend to be guided by God, Yusuf knew it wasn’t true. Allah didn’t lead men to battle. He would surely disapprove as they bled falsely in His name. 

Wiping blood and sweat from his brow as a lull happened in the battle, Yusuf locked eyes with his next opponent and _stared_. They all looked the same to him to be honest, he didn’t have time to linger on their features, they all were dirty, grim, angry, bearded and trying to kill him. But he remembered those blue eyes full of fire, the blue fire of the hottest flame, the last thing he had seen before being killed and resurrected. It couldn’t be. Yusuf had killed him. But then... Brown eyes lowered to the Frank’s stomach and the hastily sewn-together, formerly white and red tunic. It was him.

Then Yusuf died. Again. By the hand of the same asshole. Yusuf still managed to gut him. Again.

And he woke up gasping, and felt his body knit itself back together. The battle was still raging on. Moved by instincts, his hand closed on his scimitar. He turned to get back to his feet and… froze. The freaking Frank was clambering back up too!

They locked eyes again, and if the Frank hadn’t recognized him before, he sure did now. His mouth opened in abject surprise, then turned down in anger and hatred. With a cry of fury they went back to try and keep each other dead. Maybe that was Allah’s design? Why he had been brought back twice, and soon to be dozens of times. Maybe being tangled in battle with this man was what would save Jerusalem, prevent it from falling? As Yusuf thought that, dying again, this time by being strangled, he knew it wasn’t true, this was just pointless and no two men, two mere soldiers, could change the course of a war.

They murdered each other, desperate, angry, frustrated and confused. Yusuf wanted to keep that man here, to prevent him from entering Jerusalem, just this one man. He couldn’t save his city and his anguish drove him, as well as his pain at hearing those he cared for dying around him.

The circle continued until Jerusalem fell behind them, until the Christians murdered every citizen in it, until the sun set. Yusuf stabbed the Frank in his back as the latter tried to retrieve his sword. Instead, the stubborn asshole grabbed a rock and smashed his head in.

“Just stay dead!” he yelled.

Yusuf, who was a man of culture and from a family of merchants, knew just enough Italian to understand that. The man fell next to him, dying from the blow previously dealt by Yusuf. Since he had passed away first, Yusuf was also the first to come back.

Enough.

This was pointless, useless. Jerusalem had fallen. He could see the fires inside the town, mostly couldn’t hear screams anymore, just the reveling of the winners. He had nothing left to do here.

This couldn’t be Allah’s design. An endless circle of suffering and death. This was not what the Quran encouraged. And if this Frank was stuck in the same predicament as him, then maybe he was meant to walk that path and discover the truth with him.

That was why, this time, he waited to see that icy flame come back into his pupils and did not extinguish it. Instead, he offered this invader his hand, half-expecting him to bite it.

***

Morning had found Nicolò still prostrate on the floor, praying to a God who had rejected him, and not having slept at all. He kept praying even as the camp came back to life around him, readying itself for another day of killing. Kept praying through breakfast, and stopped only when one of the soldiers came to seek guidance before battle.

“Father?” he asked in a timid voice.

This one was young, he had been enrolled so his family wouldn’t have to feed him anymore. The first time the Genoa army had raided a village, he had come to Nicolò, begging to be forgiven for killing, for stealing, for letting others do unspeakable things.

“With you in a moment,” Nicolò answered.

Using his undershirt to wipe his face, Nicolò composed himself. He had come here in part to be a source of hope to his people, a rock to lean on, to provide them guidance and peace. Maybe he couldn’t provide guidance anymore, if he ever could, but the rest he could purvey. He wouldn’t abandon them in their time of need.

As presentable as he could be, Nicolò removed his tunic. His chain mail was damaged too but he couldn’t do anything about that. He grabbed a sewing kit from his bag to mend the fabric before battle and signaled to the young warrior that he could come in.

“What can I do for you, my son?” Nicolò smiled warmly at him, because that was his duty.

“A blessing before battle,” he requested.

Nicolò nodded, finished his sewing, and got to it. He was usually one of the first up, helping out in the camp to prepare breakfast and serve people. He had missed it today, and received a few joking yet derogatory comments about it from a certain crowd, a few looks of concern from those he worked close with. He didn’t reply to any. He went about the rest of the preparations mechanically.

This was what he had to do, so this was what he was doing. It had always been his way of finding reprieve for everything that he was and shouldn’t be. Having a purpose calmed him down. He had to see this through; once Jerusalem was theirs, this madness would cease. If one of Nicolò’s new secrets was to be revealed to the world at the same time, then so be it, the Church would deal with him as was fit.

Nicolò ignored the memory of a child’s crying face, of a Monsignor listening to Nicolò and promising to act but never doing so. Nicolò took a steadying breath, focusing on his mentor, the Bishop who had turned his faith into a real vocation, who had guided him so his rotten soul could be salvaged. Could it still be? Now that the demon had entered him? Nevermind. He had to do what he could, that was all that mattered.

He drew strength from this resolution on that hated battlefield. He fought to finally see this madness end, to allow his people access to the sacred land, to prevent as many of them from dying as he could.

He’d been doing just that when he saw him. He couldn’t say he recognized him per se, but there was this sense of something scratching at the back of his mind, telling him that it was familiar. And it seemed the Saracen felt it too, brown eyes lowering to his waist, searching for, and finding, the tear there. It hit Nicolò like a bull. This was the man who had killed him! The one who had started it all! The one responsible for his misery, for feeling so alienated that even God could offer no reprieve from it.

Nicolò had always been a tame child, silent, keeping to himself, able to bear most things without getting angry. It happened, but it was usually something cold, controlled. Now? It engulfed him, a tide rising high and crashing on the shore, wiping out everything in its wake. With a cry liberating all his fear, all his frustration, Nicolò drove forward and plunged his sword to the hilt inside his enemy. It felt emancipating to finally, _finally_ let it all out. And when he was killed in return, Nicolò welcomed it and prayed it would stick this time.

It didn’t.

Nicolò discovered he had more of those fears, frustrations and anger to let out. And he did. Strangely, the fact that his enemy always got back up and dished out as much as he received made it bearable for Nicolò to allow himself to lose control as he did. It felt good until it didn’t. Soon enough, it turned bitter and horrible, killing and dying and coming back only to start again. Nicolò was tired, lost and confused.

He groaned as he felt a dagger enter his back as he tried to get his sword back to defend himself - or was it to attack? He didn’t know anymore – his fingers closed on a boulder and, in a desperate attempt, he lifted it up and slammed it on his enemies’ head. 

“Just stay dead!” he yelled, not knowing who he was addressing: himself or the Saracen?

He was so tired. He wanted it to end. He wanted to pray. He didn’t want to be this… this lost, this angry, this scared. He let himself fall forward, next to the man he had murdered an uncountable number of times.

Nicolò nearly cried when he woke up again. For the first time in his life, he wanted to curse God. Then he saw brown fingers, stained with blood, enter his line of sight. An offered hand. Nicolò set his jaw, making his decision. He was doomed, had been from the age of twelve. God had forsaken him. His so-called mission was done. If they discovered what he was, he would be tortured (not killed, obviously, and that made the prospect of being found out that much worse). He had nowhere to go, and he couldn’t even die. So be it, he would discover what this new chapter of his life entailed, see where this man who suffered from the same fate would take him.

If there was one thing Nicolò was sure of, apart from God, it was that any form of kindness was to be cherished.

He took the offered hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked the story, leave me a little review? (or a long one ;) )


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geography and landscape are gonna be what I want them to be in this story, so sorry for inaccuracies. 
> 
> I tagged “mention of pedophilia from a priest (not on Nicky)” but it’s not for this chapter. As stated, it’s not on Nicky so you have nothing to worry about concerning Nicolò’s relationship with the Bishop (the Bishop is not the pedophile).

Yusuf’s hand wasn’t bitten; the Frank took it and let himself be helped to his feet. They stared at each other for a bit, lost now that they didn’t have to kill each other. Yusuf hadn’t thought that through. Yusuf usually thought with his heart first and let his brain catch up later.

Alright, he had a murderous invading asshole tagging along now, but technically his plan hadn’t changed. Leave this desolate and broken place. Get his bag. Go to his family. He turned his back to his enemy, shivering a bit at the danger of this action, his hand clutching his scimitar, and went toward where his bag would be. The Frank could follow or fuck off for all he cared.

He followed.

And took his cue to make himself discreet, even though he was less at risk than Yusuf if they were spotted. Night helped their endeavor, and soon enough Yusuf had his meager possessions back with him. The Frank blinked owlishly at him, presumably when he realized this had been planned.

“Whatever the result of this battle, I had to leave,” explained Yusuf, in Arabic.

The man shook his head, not understanding a word. Right. That would be a problem for later. Now, focus on getting out. But he had an unplanned passenger, he wouldn’t have enough provisions, and it had been barely enough to start with.

Yusuf looked at the Frank and found him staring at the smoldering Jerusalem. Did he change his mind? Did he want to go back to his people? Revel in this horrid victory? For a moment the desire to pass his scimitar through the man was overwhelming, and he might have, if he hadn’t wasted the last few hours doing just that for nothing.

But the man granted him his attention again, his eyes looking like ice, the blue fire dormant. They lowered when Yusuf met them, and that gave him grim satisfaction. Without looking back, Yusuf started leaving. He couldn’t think of the desolation, of the horrors that happened, might still be happening, in his holy city. He hoped people had managed to flee.

He stopped in his tracks. They could pilfer the corpses. Yusuf would take care of the Christians, the asshole would deal with Yusuf’s people. That way, less guilty conscience. Yusuf didn’t want to, it disgusted him. But it had to be done, for survival. They were dead, they wouldn’t mind, and if not them, then the Franks would do it anyway, so all in all Yusuf preferred to do it. Still didn’t feel right.

“We need to get supplies,” he said, knowing perfectly well that the Frank wouldn’t understand.

However, the man didn’t seem stupid. He looked at Yusuf’s bag, seeming to consider. Then he deliberately turned his gaze to the city and back to Yusuf.

“Too dangerous,” Yusuf argued, shaking his head, and sliding a finger under his throat for emphasis.

The Frank could go on his own, Yusuf supposed, but he could get stuck with his people and end up unable to come back fast. And Yusuf was not waiting for him. He was already losing precious time because of him. For emphasis he pointed at the sky, at the fading moon.

When he gave his attention back to the man, he was looking far away, but not lost in contemplation. Yusuf followed his line of sight and rolled his eyes as the Frank pointed in the direction of his gaze. Yeah, ok, he wasn’t stupid, but that still didn’t gave him a clue at what the asshole was hinting at. The Frank pointed to his bag, then back in the same direction. Oh. His camp?

That wasn’t a bad idea. Most of the troops were inside Jerusalem, and would certainly wait until morning to start moving everything in. And their supplies for war were in the camp. No picking off dead brethren and enemies. It might be a bit dangerous for Yusuf, less so for the asshole - even if he was spotted, it would be easier to make excuses and leave. And the Frank wasn’t a nobody; he had that shiny metal stuff on his body, a good sword, and he had to have at least a tiny bit of status, which would help. Yusuf nodded his assent.

As Yusuf followed the Frank, he wondered if maybe he was being tricked, led to his death… well, not death but capture, possible torture. He readied his scimitar and focused his tired mind. He would have to take a chance, just like he had by offering his hand. InshaAllah.

***

Nicolò didn’t know what he was doing. But he had made up his mind the moment he’d gripped the extended hand, accepted that kindness, that peace offering. He couldn’t be with his people anymore, so he could only be with this man that shared the curse. His steadiness, the fact that he seemed to have a plan, calmed Nicolò.

He left the Saracen hidden in the night, not far from the camp, and went alone. He would have to believe the man would wait for him. The fact that he might not worried Nicolò far more than it should. Under his breath he murmured a prayer, hoping God would still listen to him.

Suddenly it dawned on him that he had freed Jerusalem, pilgrims would be able to come again (1). Technically his soul had been saved, as promised by the Pope. It didn’t feel like it. Not even a little. Nicolò cut himself and watched as he healed. Still cursed. Would his other secret be cured? He shook his head, now was not the time to ponder on such matters.

Nicolò managed to sneak in without being spotted. The camp was almost empty, the guard easily distracted now that victory was theirs and the aides too busy to worry about anything besides their tasks. Once in his tent, he grabbed his things. Not much - he was at war, and a priest. He almost left the crossbow behind but decided to take it, just in case. He hadn’t been trained in the famous Genoa corps but he still knew how to operate it (2).

Nicolò tapped his index finger against his thigh in thought, looking around to see if he was forgetting anything. Food and water, what he had was too little. He didn’t know what the other had in his bag, nor what was planned and how soon they would be able to replenish.

He knew where to get what he needed. Would that be considered stealing? Nicolò decided that it wouldn’t. After all, he had also been promised a reward. He would take it in the form of food and water. Slowly, patiently, he made his way to the Bishop’s tent. He bided his time to be sure he wasn’t spotted and managed to enter unnoticed. As he had thought, everything he needed was there. He made short work of gathering it.

On a table, he glimpsed a map with notes on it. He might need this. But it would be noticed, much more than missing food. Unless they thought it had been lost, but how to make them believe that? Nicolò started packing the Bishop’s things, and stopped halfway through, leaving the rest in disarray, as if he’d been called and left his work in a hurry. Satisfied, he left to get back to his enemy-turned-travelling companion.

Fear gripped him when he didn’t see the Saracen, had he made him wait too long? Had the man decided he didn’t want to associate with an invader? Had… Oh, never mind. Here he was, crouched low in the sand, tracing things with his sword that Nicolò couldn’t distinguish. He didn’t care, far more relieved at not having been abandoned.

Nicolò opened his mouth to call his name before remembering he didn’t know it. Fortunately the man had already spotted him. He kicked the sand, erasing his tracings, rose and left, clearly expecting to be followed. Nicolò followed. The man didn’t say anything about how much time Nicolò had needed, nor did he ask about what he had brought back. Nicolò wouldn’t have understood if he did. And the sun was ascending, they needed to move fast.

***

At least the Frank wasn’t a bother, for the moment. He followed without questions (not that Yusuf would understand them if he had any), without stopping or complaining about Yusuf’s punishing pace, and he seemed to have some brains. He had left behind the metal stuff he wore and had to be lighter for it. 

Yusuf didn’t make them stop at all for the whole day, only when his legs threatened to collapse under him did he decide to make camp. They should be far enough not to attract attention, and he had found a secluded location.

Yusuf had gathered on his way all that would be needed to start a small fire. The Frank had imitated him, and gave him what he had before leaving Yusuf to the fire and setting down his bedroll.

That suited Yusuf just fine. He needed time to think. He raked a hand through his untamed locks and grumbled as he got tangled. It was worse than usual, his hair still matted with blood from his skull having been bashed in by a rock. What was he doing? Could he trust that Frank? Things were going smoothly for the moment, but they had been murdering each other rather enthusiastically mere hours before! His plan was to rejoin his family, with a Frank in tow? Was that really a good, safe and sane idea? Could he be trusted? Could Yusuf bring himself to trust him?

He would have to decide on the way. It would take at least two months to reach his hometown, and that was if they didn’t run into trouble, and found a camel or a horse… He had time to test the Frank and make his mind up. This was settled for the moment. 

When Yusuf turned back to the man, even if he had tracked him mostly by ear the whole time, he found out the man had laid out the food and water he had taken from his camp.

Nice initiative. Maybe Yusuf wasn’t totally crazy and naïve and this could work. He started dividing the food: dried meat and fish, nuts, dates, flat bread of diverse kinds, pies, spices (which surprised Yusuf, he knew westerners didn’t care much for those) and of course several water-skins. Yusuf divided it all in half, they were equals and each was going to manage his own supplies.

Yusuf popped a date into his mouth and hummed in pleasure. The Frank was staring at him, his expression, or what Yusuf could see under grim, unkempt hair and beard, unreadable. It was a bit unnerving to say the truth, how motionless and calm that man was, like the ice of his eyes… but Yusuf knew firsthand the lurking blue fire that inhabited him. A predator, like one of those big cats, immobile, endlessly patient, waiting until it struck.

Strangely, that reminded him that he hadn’t prayed all day. He would have to do all the prayers tonight and he was exhausted. Yusuf got up. The Frank followed his movement with his body, as if to stop him, but Yusuf didn’t care right now and the man didn’t insist, as if sensing Yusuf’s mood.

Yusuf used sand to purify himself before praying ( _tayammum_ ), as was customary when one couldn’t find or use water. He could feel the fire-blue eyes on him and gritted his teeth determined to ignore them. Allah would forgive him if his mind was half-focused on the possible danger that the Christian represented, and the invading asshole would have to deal with Yusuf being a committed Muslim. 

Once done with his worship, Yusuf ate a bit and settled on his bedroll. He felt angry. Itching to take his scimitar and fight. The Christian was kneeling on his bedroll, a necklace with a cross between his fingers, moving the beads up as he prayed (3). He could feel that the Frank was alert, as Yusuf had been, but he exuded a form of calm, drawing strength from praying alone.

Understanding dawned on Yusuf: he missed his brethren. Praying on his own, when the last few days he had been surrounded by others, had reminded him of what he’d lost.

Most of them had to be dead.

They wouldn’t even be allowed a proper burial.

Maybe this man next to him had killed some of them personally.

Yusuf’s hand was on his scimitar before he even realized it. His muscles were tensed, ready for him to jump to action. Narrowed blue eyes were on him, the icy ones, lacking the fire they held in battle, but the Frank, too, was prepared. Yusuf took a deep breath. He couldn’t even kill this Frank to avenge his friends. Gratuitous vengeance served no purpose. He had offered this man his hand. _He had offered peace._

One by one, Yusuf forced his fingers to lift from the hilt. Another deep breath. He was a man of honor. He would mourn, he would not exact vengeance. He lay on his bedroll, weapon at the ready, a dagger in his hand, under a makeshift pillow. The Frank had closed his eyes again, his lips silently moving under that beard as he prayed with his beaded necklace. 

Yusuf couldn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t. He felt he would cry if he did. Because he didn’t trust that invading asshole. Yusuf felt uprooted, he didn’t know what he was doing, he had lost the life and people he knew here, he didn’t know what he had become…

Exhaustion got the better of him, and between one thought and another he slipped into sleep, plagued with blue-eyed nightmares.

***

Nicolò sensed when the Saracen lost consciousness, the tension bleeding out of him and releasing Nicolò. It wasn’t so much that he fell asleep, but more that he collapsed. For a moment, Nicolò had thought they would fight again. But the man had reigned himself in and dug holes in Nicolò’s side with his eyes only.

It had been strange to see him pray. To witness his faith. It hadn’t looked different from his.

Was that why Nicolò was being punished? Because he could feel his faith crumbling between his fingers?

His beloved Bishop Andrea had been adamant about the Saracen. They were heretics, worshipping a false prophet, one inspired by the devil, one that could be the antichrist incarnate (4). The Saracen practiced magic and forbidden things, their so-called science a way to lead good Christians astray. They were violent people, thieves, killers, rapists, and they had denied access to the Holy City for years. They couldn’t be reasoned with.

Nicolò had been twelve when he had known his soul was rotten and promised to Hell. He had been fourteen when Bishop Andrea had found a use for him, the fifth son of a small lord, the unwanted, unneeded child. Nicolò had been given to the church and the Bishop had caught him training with a piece of wood. Nicolò might have been useless but he still had had to uphold his family’s name (he remembered his father yelling at him that he had almost sullied that too) so he had been trained in the art of swordsmanship and archery from birth.

_Nicolò had completed his duties, he had made his prayers too. He’d finished early and had free time for once. He supposed he should have kept praying, but… there was a branch he’d noticed when raking the leaves. It was well-balanced, just long and heavy enough, perfect really to be used as a makeshift sword. Nicolò hadn’t been able to resist the urge to train, to lose himself in the familiar moves. It was winter, it was cold, and the exercises would warm him up._

_“What is your name?”_

_The branch fell from his suddenly frozen fingers. He’d been caught. He was going to be punished. Had he blemished his family’s name again? He turned and the little color the exertion had brought to his face vanished in dread. It wasn’t one of the monks. This was worse. It was the visiting Bishop. He had failed his family and the monastery he’d been given to._

_Nicolò fell on his knees, making himself as little as he could as he reached with shaking hands to the hem of the white robes, pressing a kiss to them._

_“Nicolò, your Excellency.”_

_“What were you doing, Nicolò?”_

_“Training, your Excellency.”_

_Truth was owed. Lies were punished. Trying to defend one’s actions was a sign of guilt, unwillingness to submit to due punishment. A manicured hand, becoming touched by age, gently grabbed his chin and forced his face up. Nicolò could feel the burning coldness of the rings on those knotted fingers press into his cheeks._

_“At the sword?”_

_“Yes, your Excellency.”_

_“You are the child of the Di Genoa, are you not?”_

_“Yes, your Excellency. May I beg for clemency and that the name of my family may not be touched by my foolish actions? I will gladly bear a harsher punishment if you would allow it.”_

_A contemplative hum answered him. A thumb started gently caressing his jaw and Nicolò jolted at that tender touch, surprised and fighting the urge to lean into it._

_“How old are you, Nicolò?”_

_“Fourteen, your Excellency.”_

_“You speak well, and your sword skills were decent. Tell me, have you finished your tasks for the day, and your prayers?”_

_“Yes, your Excellency. I would never have yielded to temptation had my duties not been done.”_

_The hold on his chin turned into a cup of his cheek and Nicolò briefly closed his eyes. Not even his mother had shown him this much kindness._

_“What temptation, Nicolò? You did nothing wrong,” softly assured the Bishop._

_“Surely I should have kept praying?” blurted out Nicolò._

_A delighted chuckle escaped the Bishop._

_“You are wasted here, Nicolò. You will come with me and I will make you into a priest, not a mere monk.”_

_Tears rose to Nicolò’s eyes. Did the Bishop think he had value? Him? Oh, how he wanted that! He would do anything this kind man asked of him. If he had a use for him, then Nicolò was his. But…_

_“That will not be possible, your Excellency.”_

_The hold on him grew a tad tighter, then was removed. Nicolò felt a single tear slide down his cheek at the feeling of loss that crushed him._

_“Why is that, Nicolò?”_

_Nicolò liked the way the Bishop always used his name. People didn’t usually make a point of remembering it, or call him by it. This felt nice. But Nicolò’s secret shame was going to destroy it all. His father and the monk had been right, he was doomed, his own failings preventing him from having any value, from gaining happiness._

_Nicolò had been silent too long. The Bishop’s face wasn’t contorted into anger. However, he looked curious, puzzled. He motioned for Nicolò to rise, so he did, and felt himself being guided inside, to a warm and secluded part of the monastery. The Bishop signaled for one of his aids and whispered commands to him._

_“We are alone now, Nicolò. You can tell me. Why can’t you come with me?”_

_He had no choice but to comply. To shatter that kindness bestowed upon him._

_“I will burn in Hell, your Excellency. I… I am unnatural… as guilty as the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah.”_

_“Oh, you are attracted to men. Have you lain with one?”_

_Nicolò vehemently shook his head. He had kissed one, however, a valet that helped him tend to the horses, older and never mean to him. He had grabbed Nicolò’s hand and placed it upon his sex. And how Nicolò had wanted that! He would have fallen to temptation had it not been for his father walking on them. It was a miracle Nicolò didn’t have any scars from the beating he’d received, just a few broken bones. He’d been lucky, the valet hadn’t escaped the ordeal with his life._

_The Bishop watched Nicolò kindly and said:_

_“It is one thing to be tempted and another to yield to it. No one is exempt from temptations. Not even me, Nicolò; women still hold their lascivious power over me. Those unnatural desires are your cross to bear. I will teach you how to fight those disgusting urges of the flesh and the unnatural. I might even be able to cure you. And, my child, soon a way to cleanse your soul will present itself.”_

_Before Nicolò could open his mouth to inquire about it, the Bishop’s aid came back with a cape that looked warm and a bowl of steaming soup. To think the Bishop would take his meal in Nicolò’s company!_

_“Dress and eat, Nicolò,” the Bishop said._

_For him? Those were for him? This couldn’t be true. There had to be a mistake. Especially after he had confessed his sin._

_“I have already eaten, your Excellency,” said Nicolò._

_A new chuckle, the Bishop seemed pleased. He wrapped the cape around Nicolò’s shoulders and pushed the bowl in his hands. There was meat in the soup._

_“Eat, you need to grow stronger. I have a use for your skills. You will become a priest and a warrior. You see, Nicolò, years ago those sickening Saracens forbade us access to Jerusalem. This will not stand, mark my words. I will be ready for when we march to free our most Holy city. You will be the weapon of our success, Nicolò.”_

_“Yes, your Excellency.”_

Sixteen years later, here he was: unable to die, his faith shaky, sharing a fire with a Saracen, counting on him to help make sense of the shambles of his life. How ironic. His fourteen-year-old self would have been appalled. But then, he’d been young and had known almost nothing of life.

Truth be told, Nicolò’s beliefs about the Saracens had started to crumble the moment he’d left the ship and set foot in their country. He hadn’t seen demonic people, but merely people. He had witnessed his own people committing the atrocities the Saracens were accused of. Not that he doubted the Saracens could do that too - humans were humans, after all. But that was the thing, he had been taught they were less than human, animals. And when Nicolò himself was frothing at the mouth with hatred, it was a Saracen that had extended his hand and shown kindness and mercy.

Had _anything_ he’d been taught been true?

Yes. Jerusalem. That had been right. But… If taking Jerusalem was necessary, was the only way to allow, at last, his people their pilgrimage, wasn’t the price too high? Maybe Nicolò could make amends for that, travelling with that Saracen… no, he shouldn’t be calling him that, but he didn’t have his name and the… stranger didn’t seem inclined to try and communicate with him, at least for the moment.

Nicolò couldn’t blame him. He’d been laying siege to his city. He had killed him, multiple times to boot.

With a weary sigh, Nicolò settled down on his bedroll, looking at the Muslim sleeping. It was a fretful rest, most likely plagued with nightmares. Maybe of Nicolò? To think he could be someone’s nightmare… 

He had to sleep, at least a little. His mind was addled as it was, it didn’t need more reasons to be. He faced the Muslim, not comfortable having him at his back. He started praying, again, despite the shame of doing it not out of faith, but to drown out his thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) As said in chapter 1, Nicolò doesn’t know the city had been taken back by the Fatimid that allowed pilgrimage. 
> 
> (2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genoese_crossbowmen 
> 
> (3) A Rosary is a Cross on a chain, and on that chain there are beads. On each bead you have to do a prayer (there is an order, and a type of prayer for the different beads) 
> 
> (4) Yes, that was how they saw it back then.   
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medieval_Christian_views_on_Muhammad 
> 
> ****  
> Thank you so much to all the lovely people who reviewed, you keep me going <3
> 
> Thank you for the kudoes too !


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all the lovely people who took the time to review <3

In this chapter and upcoming ones, I will use the term sketchbook, it’s an anachronism but it’s easier. Please picture pieces of paper linked together by two threads of leather. Also, Yusuf is a merchant’s son and an artist, for me he has easy access to paper.

## Chapter 4

Yusuf woke up with a start and a yell stuck in his mouth. Nightmares. Yusuf didn’t have time to worry about the Frank’s whereabouts because he was greeted by the sight of the man, already up (if he had slept at all) and cleaning his sword. Yusuf pressed his hands to his eye sockets and sighed.

He had dreamt of his death, at that man’s sword. Of his eyes, those blue fire eyes that reminded him of Djinns. He had seen him as one of them, those blue monsters, those demonic creatures, here to lure humans and tempt them to do evil. After all, he was immortal, and he could have cursed Yusuf. All this could be a ploy to get to him.

No. The Quran forbade superstitions. Djinn shouldn’t be feared. And truthfully, if a Djinn wanted to lead him astray, he would have chosen a beautiful male corporation. Not this… unwashed, smelly, unkempt, looking like an owl’s regurgitation of a man.

To be fair, Yusuf wasn’t in a better state, still covered in dried blood and grime. But he would argue that at least his beard was well kept, if currently dirty. Begrudgingly, Yusuf also had to admit the Frank’s eyes were striking, but haunting Yusuf’s night with death and the blue fire of hatred. 

Then Yusuf realized the sun was up. The Frank had let him sleep, and he’d missed the dawn prayer. With a groan, he set to it. Once again he felt watched but when he glanced up, the Frank was reading what had to be a bible.

The Frank raised his head as he felt attention lingering on him. Yusuf huffed and turned, looking in his bag for food, all the while keeping the man in his peripheral vision, not yet able to be at ease. Yusuf ate a bit of his ration, ending his breakfast with a date. He couldn’t help but think of his nightmares. That made him feel tense and suspicious. He knew only one way to settle his mind. He had to draw them, exorcise them on paper. But the sun was up, they should be moving. They would need three days to reach a village with water and food.

He stood up, patted himself free of sand, and motioned to indicate they had to move. The Frank nodded and followed. Each time they stopped, Yusuf would pull out his sketchbook and draw the images that rotted his dreams. That seemed to intrigue the Frank, but Yusuf kept to himself, making sure he couldn’t even catch a glimpse. The man didn’t push, ever.

Two days later, Yusuf had filled half his sketchbook with pictures of the war, his numerous deaths, his numerous kills, and lots of the Frank as a Djinn and other scary mean creatures.

Yusuf didn’t feel like trying to communicate with the Frank. The latter had tried and Yusuf had signaled for him to shut up before even one word could escape his mouth. One didn’t talk in the desert, in order to keep his breath, strength and saliva. Especially since they didn’t have much water. He had mimed this to the best of his abilities and been obeyed.

He was also bored out of his mind. If it had been a normal convoy to another city, he would have had enough supplies so it wouldn’t have been a problem to talk and joke with his brethren. He would have recited poetry and told stories.

Yusuf craved a bath. Multiple baths. Bathing for a whole week. And soap. And perfume. He felt so dirty. Everything scratched, even his beard, he didn’t even want to think of the state of his hair.

Also, he wanted the Frank to bathe. Their combined smell was potent. And the man kept scratching himself, his arms, his neck, his beard, everything he could reach. Sometimes to the point of creating a rash, that would heal almost as soon. Worst of all, Yusuf had been shocked when he’d noticed the Frank ate with his left hand. His LEFT hand! The one used to wipe his butt and clean himself (well, when one could). That would surely add itself to his frequent nightmares! (1)

And Yusuf was hungry. He wasn’t used to rationing his food, it had always been someone else’s job. So he had eaten too much, and now he ate too little. He had no dates left even though he’d found two yesterday, at the bottom of his bag.

And the Frank drove him crazy. The moron didn’t wear a headscarf, letting the punishing sun batter his head and mind. He seemed to suffer from headaches that healed and came back just as fast because he was stupid. He rationed his water instead of continuously drinking small quantities of it to keep himself hydrated, which certainly didn’t help the headaches.

But what truly made Yusuf murderous, made him want to unsheathe his scimitar? Was that the Frank was fucking kind.

An insect fallen on his back and struggling to right itself? The Frank stopped and helped. A snake popping up just under where his foot was going to land? The Frank toppled backward to avoid hurting it. An animal stuck? The Frank tried to help, got bitten, realized he could heal in seconds, and redoubled his effort until he had freed the thing. Even plants, he would avoid stepping on them!

He was kind. It was obvious. And Yusuf wanted to kill him so much for it. How could a kind soul like him invade a country? How could he believe that was right? How could he murder people defending their homes? Why were beasts and plants worthy of being helped and protected but not Yusuf’s people? Were they beneath animals in his eyes?

That was why Yusuf hadn’t been able to allow them to talk, to even exchange names. He was too angry, too hurt. He’d offered peace, he understood they might need to work together to make sense of their strange immortal fate… but he couldn’t offer more yet. He didn’t have the strength. If they managed to understand each other, Yusuf would be uncharitable, he knew it. So he preferred to keep the Frank at a distance. Until he could get all his resentment under control.

If he ever could.

* * *

Nicolò felt humbled. It was clear the Muslim didn’t trust him, could barely stand him, and yet he had offered peace. He was traveling with him, tolerating him.

How could one apologize for invading a country? For bringing death and pain? The more he thought about it, the more he found he was in the wrong. It pained him greatly, because he was rejecting all the teachings of Bishop Andrea, his mentor, the man who had saved him, who had given him a place, a purpose.

He had believed it was necessary to reclaim Jerusalem, for the pilgrimages. But… God would have understood, no? That they couldn’t go. Was it worth all the lives they had lost, both Christian’s and Muslim’s? Nicolò wasn’t so sure anymore. At least it was finished, the war was over.

He would have to prove his benevolence to this Muslim with his actions. And to his people, if he were to stay in this country.

That was all he could do.

But. Sooner or later, Nicolò would have to push; he couldn’t keep letting the man ignore him. They would have to talk. Or try to, at least.

Especially since Nicolò didn’t know where they were going, what they were doing. He just knew he had no choice but to follow. And he couldn’t make sense of the Muslim. Why did he use sand regularly? Why torture himself like that before praying? Didn’t he have enough sand _everywhere_? In his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his body hair, on his skin, in every joint and cranny. Nicolò had discovered places on his body he didn’t know sand _could_ get into! Nicolò wanted to rip his skin off, if only that would help get rid of the scratchiness from being so dirty and sandy!

Nicolò lifted his gaze from said sand at his feet and watched the tense shoulders in front of him. He received a glance for his trouble and made sure his face was neutral. Not now, the Muslim wasn’t ready. It had only been a few days. Nicolò had to be patient, and that was something he was well versed in.

Needing the comfort, he reached for his cross, patting down his flank where it was usually hanging, safely tucked into his clothes. Nothing. Nicolò’s heart froze. Bishop Andrea’s rosary. Frantically he pulled at his tattered clothing, in vain. He looked around him in the sand. Nothing.

Mary mother of God. Not that. Please. He knew God had forsaken him, but… Nicolò couldn’t, he couldn’t!

Nicolò turned, retracing his steps, too panicked to think to warn his travelling companion. His head hurt. It hurt all the time nowadays, only to get better, then hurt again soon after. He fell on his knees, palming the sand around him inch by inch to try and find his rosary. At last, his fingers closed on the wooden cross, wrapped around the metal of the chain and the delicate pearls of the beads. 

_Thank you. Thank you._ Nicolò almost sobbed, his head pressed into the sand, his lips on his cross. He took a shaky breath and rose.

Sand. Everywhere. The wind was picking up. Nicolò had to move fast, to catch up before the trail was erased. He started to trot, and stopped as he was met with the Muslim’s presence. He blinked, clutching the cross to his chest. The man had come back to look for him?

Brown eyes took him in and lingered on the cross in his hands. The man gave a curt nod, seeming to understand what had happened, and started walking forward again. Nicolò followed with his heart in his throat, praying with the rosary to keep his hands from trembling. He was very good at repressing his feelings, even when his mind was running like a spooked horse.

Like he feared, the Muslim made them stop as soon as possible. They should have continued a bit longer. Was the man going to yell at him? Would he leave him behind? Nicolò had been a hindrance… Nicolò closed his eyes, his jaw twitching as he thought to keep himself in check.

He was a grown man, a warrior, a priest, not a loveless, hopeless, feeble child. If he was left behind, he would deal with it. If the Muslim yelled at him, he would… let it happen. Because that man had every right to be angry, not about Nicolò going back for the cross, but about everything else. It was clear this man felt deeply, and had been keeping his anger in check with an iron grip.

So Nicolò braced himself... and was puzzled as nothing happened. The Muslim had settled on his bedroll and hidden behind his strange book. Contrary to expectations, his gaze seemed… softer?

Nicolò made his nightly prayers and settled to sleep. As usual, to keep his mind off the things that ate at him, he started praying the rosary.

For once, he was the first one asleep, lulled to it by the gentle scratching of pen on paper.

* * *

For the first time since Yusuf had started to draw him, Nicolò wasn’t a monster. He was looking lost and scared, clutching his cross for dear life.

What had driven that man to leave everything he knew behind? Their newfound immortality? It felt strange to Yusuf, because his own reaction was to go seek his roots, seek the people who had helped him grow and had guided his steps. But this Frank? He left a victorious army and joined his enemy. He didn’t even know what Yusuf had planned. For all he knew Yusuf could deliver him to his army to be tortured for information, he could try to sell him to a brothel! And yet, here he was, following obediently.

Yusuf had thought him a predator, calm and composed, ready to pounce. And it was true. But. The composure had cracked. How he’d seemed panicked looking for his cross, how he’d been relieved when he saw Yusuf, how he had clutched to that cross as if his life depended on it. And… how he’d been tensed, as if waiting for the whip to crack afterwards.

Was he feeling guilty for his part in the horrors of war? Was his faith failing him? Yusuf had been told once that people who clung to faith too tightly were the ones with things to hide. Was that the case with him? Visibly, he was the kind of man who bottled his feelings up until the dam shattered.

Yusuf felt vindictive again. How dare he show him his human side? This invader! This murderer! This Djinn!

May Allah give him compassion and mercy. Yes. Allah was those. So this was just the proof Yusuf had been right to offer them. 

This was hard. Yusuf wanted to let all his pain, his grief and anger go. But he couldn’t.

He closed his sketchbook and went to bed, his eyes focused on the sleeping Frank. Even if he couldn’t see the fire-blue pupils, they found him again in his nightmares.

They both woke up at the same time for once, jolting awake, hands on their respective weapons. Yusuf had seen those two women in his dreams before, when he died the very first time. He remembered that. He groaned and laid back down, still wanting a bath very very much, wanting to sleep some more, too. But no time. For once, he wouldn’t be late for the morning prayer!

And soon he would be able to take a blessed bath! They had about a morning of walking ahead of them before reaching the village. Before he could be with his people again and draw strength from them, pray with them.

Yusuf didn’t even waste time eating, he had barely anything left anyway. He took the road as soon as he was done with his worship. The Frank followed, munching his breakfast on the way, not complaining. He never did. By the way he was scrutinizing Yusuf, he had to suspect something was up.

Yusuf’s joy at the prospect of reaching a town was short-lived. When the village became visible from where they were, uphill, so did the little army that was coming its way. Franks. Fuck.

Now there were three possibilities. One: they were peaceful, wanted rations, got them and left. Yusuf and the invading asshole that tagged along would get less, but should manage. Two: they were peaceful, wanted rations and stayed. If Yusuf and his tag-along couldn’t die by the sword, or by the heat and dehydration (Yusuf could bet the Frank had died from one of those at least once), could they die of starvation? The next village wasn’t close, they didn’t have enough to go on, and couldn’t very well just enter if the Frank army was there. Yusuf would be killed, the tagalong might have troubles or be fine. Three: they were not peaceful. Yusuf didn’t want to think about this one. Especially since he couldn’t trust the man at his side. Either way, there went Yusuf’s bath.

What to do? Try going in the village first? He doubted they’d have time. Sneak in during the night? Yusuf glanced at the Frank, who was assessing the situation too. For a moment he seemed surprised that his opinion mattered. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, shook his head and crouched on the ground, putting his hand above his eyes in an exaggerated manner, pretended to squint before rising again just as fast. He wanted them to wait and see. Alright.

Yusuf nodded and pulled out his sketchbook. He watched as the Frank went to clean his sword. Did he want to be sure it was sharp enough to skew Yusuf with, when he sided with his people again? Out of spite, Yusuf made one sketch, then tended to his scimitar. That didn’t seem to faze the Frank one bit.

Soon enough the Frank army, at least a dozen, had reached the small village. The townspeople had seen them coming and gathered, they were going to comply (not that they had much choice). Maybe Yusuf would get his bath after all.

Or not.

The leader had unsheathed his sword and screamed for battle! They were charging in even before checking if the village would submit! Allah be merciful! Yusuf reached for his scimitar. He wouldn’t stand by and watch his people get slaughtered! A hand closed on his wrist and Yusuf turned to see the invading asshole shake his head.

Yusuf’s blood boiled. Without thinking, he slit the Frank’s throat. He watched as, for a moment, the blue fire set ablaze in those eyes, then drained away with his life. Yusuf took the man’s sword and stabbed it to the hilt through his heart, his body and the sand. He had noticed they resurrected more slowly from really bad injuries.

This way, Yusuf would have enough time to reach the village and defend them, precious time before the Frank joined his people against him. To think he’d even considered the idea that that asshole could have a guilty conscience.

Yusuf ran into the village and the fray, if it could be called that. The poor town’s people didn’t stand a chance but they tried their best. With the element of surprise, he managed to get rid of two soldiers. Then the situation turned direr. Yusuf was going to get killed for sure. Good thing he was immortal.

* * *

It hurt. Really, really hurt.

Nicolò groaned in agony as he woke up. His hands flew to his neck as it knitted itself back together and he gulped dry air and sand. He tried to get up only to realize the pain and strange sensation in his gut came from his own sword being slowly pushed out of his entrails. Gritting his teeth he grabbed the hilt and pulled. His fingers, sleek with blood, slipped a few times before he managed to free himself. 

Alright. Where was the Muslim who had so kindly pinned him like a butterfly? Nicolò’s fault really. He shouldn’t have stopped him; of course the man had mistaken his intentions. He had wanted a plan, the Muslim had thought he wanted to stop him from helping his people. Fair.

Nicolò had wished for a way to prove himself, his regrets, to the man. Now was his chance.

He slid down the hill and ran into the village. Soon he found a nice house that would be perfect for his plan. He pushed past the terrified woman and her children and climbed up to the roof. Taking the crossbow had been a good idea.

The Muslim was surrounded but still held his ground. Nicolò fired to save a townsperson first, hitting the aggressor in his sword shoulder. He had a feeling his traveling companion would prefer him to save his people first rather than his immortal self. As the soldier frantically looked around to spot the archer, Nicolò took his sweet time, aimed and got him in the throat.

Then he set to help the Muslim, firing without truly aiming, just trying to give him more space to move and more opportunity to strike.

* * *

Yusuf lifted an eyebrow as one of his adversaries yelped in pain from behind him. Then the other eyebrow as an arrow nicely planted itself into the stomach of the man facing him.

Either the invading asshole was really bad at aiming, or he was helping him.

It had to be him; Yusuf highly doubted any of the town’s people had an arc. Taking full advantage of this improbable help, Yusuf worked on finishing off the injured soldiers. They were panicking, having caught on that injuries didn’t slow Yusuf down and that they were being picked off like flies with nowhere to seek shelter.

It felt good, to be able to let all his pent-up emotions out, to be useful, to know he was protecting and saving people. All the helplessness that had weighed him down since the fall of Jerusalem fueled him. This time he would make a difference, this time he would succeed.

He slashed at the two men in front of him, pushing them away and parrying a sword. He smirked as the other soldier yelped in pain, an arrow piercing his raised wrist. A second later, Yusuf had gutted him.

He side-stepped an attack and cursed as he felt an arrow embed itself in his shoulder. Had the asshole finally learnt to aim? He continued to fight, undeterred. Not many more to get rid of. Yusuf took another shot, in the leg this time, otherwise all the other arrows did help. He guessed it was hard not to hit him when he moved as much as he did, and the Frank didn’t have to worry about hurting him.

Having the arrows did help. Until there were no more. Had something happened? Yusuf refused to acknowledge his worries. He dispatched the last two soldiers and wiped his brow.

A villager rushed to him, thanked him and pointed him to one of the roofs, saying he had seen three Franks go over there. Yusuf rolled his shoulders and, scimitar in hand, went to help his tagalong. He arrived in time to witness two soldiers dead on the floor, and the man cutting down the last one: a slash from shoulder to hip. Then he impaled him, and kicked him in the stomach to free his sword.

Eyes blazing with the blue flame of the hottest fire, Yusuf’s Frank turned, ready to slaughter the next one, only to find Yusuf looking at him. He lowered his sword and gave Yusuf a curt nod, then cleaned his blade on his arm before going to gather his crossbow.

So the Frank didn’t fear showing Yusuf his back, even after he’d slit his throat and crucified him to the sand. Yusuf watched as he approached, settling at Yusuf’s side and looking calm and collected except for his twitching jaw.

Yusuf wiped his scimitar on the Frank’s hip and winked as the appalled man gaped at him. Not waiting for any further reaction, Yusuf made to get back to town. He reached the door before noticing the Frank wasn’t following. He turned to him and saw him looking at his feet, ill-at-ease. Catching his stare, the Frank motioned at his face and clothes.

True. The villagers might not appreciate having him around after what had happened. But if he was with Yusuf, that made it clear they were allies, it should be ok. But maybe he should remove his tunic with the red cross on it. Yusuf pointed to it and mimed taking it off.

The Frank did so without fuss, and used it to wrap his crossbow before dutifully following Yusuf down the stairs. Yusuf noticed how he made sure to stay a deferential step behind him, as if to show he was no threat. Smart.

He needn’t have worried, the villagers were far too relieved, and grieving their dead, to care. Yusuf felt better. He hadn’t been able to save everyone, but it could have been far worse. Now the town would help them get on their way, perfect.

And he would get that bath! Thank Allah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) bit of trivia I learnt from a Muslim friend. Couldn’t help but add it. Poor Yusuf is appalled XD

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Kudos and especially reviews are deeply appreciated and will help keep me going :)  
> You can tell me what you liked, what made you react etc etc ;)


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